


Haunted

by Enasencca, Nualie



Category: Gloomverse (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Gen, Graphic Description, I can tell you it’s not a gift, Never wish for sight kids, No animals were harmed in the making of this fic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, This is not a good thing, alternate universe- spirits, cirrus doesn't appear in the prologue but he's important!!, is this story an excuse to be eery for pages on end? maybe, it definitely is, like... in general., spirits are a thing, who are we kidding nua
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-10-28 05:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17781302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enasencca/pseuds/Enasencca, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nualie/pseuds/Nualie
Summary: In which being a Mancer means more than breaking a few laws. Or, the Glooms's eyes and ears are open, and this spurs changes that will rock Gloomverse to its very core.Well, mostly just Cirrus.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Nua: Woo! Another collab, and this one is multi-chaptered! Mostly Enasencca's idea though ;) Stay tuned~
> 
> Ena: Hi! Ena here! Im super excited for this story, been working on it with Nua for a while! Hope yall like it!

In which being a Mancer means more than just breaking a few laws.

 

* * *

 

He has three names.

 

Amadeus is his first, and only a handful knows— And only a handful will ever know, if he has his say. He is the mountain’s namesake, its senior; he weathered storms long before it was named.

 

His second is a name known only to him now; a string of syllables that ooze power, that sends chills down his spine and makes him shudder. He never speaks it out loud, hasn’t since he was three years old and his mother grabbed him, shook him, and the words won’t leave his mouth since. He doesn’t even dare to let them cross his mind.

 

His third is Hobo— He uses this one always, now.

 

Mortals are so oblivious. They forget sometimes, why middle names are so important, because they’d rather close their eyes and pretend not to see the monsters creeping under their beds.

 

* * *

 

He watches over his family. (Always, Always.)

 

It’s the least he can do. After he left. (He never did.)

 

They’re at a beach now, one with the clearest waters and finest sand, slipping through their fingertips like powdered snow. Mortals find it awe-inspiring, but a Mancer knows to be wary.

 

Beautiful things are often the most dangerous. (Nothing happens without a price.)

 

Harold and Wallis scream and squeal in glee, playing in the sand. He catches sight of something- a woman, dressed in flowing green silks and covered with white flowers, watching them from the waters. Her smile is gentle. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

 

His sons-- they almost look like twins. He knows then, with sickening clarity, why the water reaches for them so hungrily.

 

* * *

 

“But Moooommmm! Why do we have to go home already?!”

 

* * *

 

Harold’s eyes are open.

 

His eldest hears only a voice calling out to them, yelling their names. He sees only darkness. But his youngest… his youngest isn’t nearly as lucky.

 

This one is deceptive. It calls out, and the closer you get to it, the farther away it sounds.

 

Harold sees through it. He pales, and shakes, and he grabs his brother’s hand and leads them away. He sees the empty spaces where something should be, the way reality twists and wraps around them like a burial shroud. It’s wrong-- like a coffin with a living corpse, a lit candle melting upwards. All wrong. 

 

They get home safely.

 

The next day he feels the telltale tug of a summoner, and knows who it must be.

 

* * *

 

Wallis’s eyes may not be as open, but he learns how to adapt.

 

He can see things- perhaps not as clearly as his little brother, but he does. He learns to pretend he cannot; learns to ignore shadows leaping in the corner of his eyes, clawed hands emerging from a classmate’s hoodie, or the thing that peers around the corner at night.

 

Wallis learns to draw attention from humans and learns to avoid attention from the others.

 

He wishes his son did not have to learn.

 

* * *

 

“Ahahaha, hey Seagirl, I think I change my mind. We should eat at home instead— Mom probably made dinner already!”

 

“Wallis, wha-” Seaweed doesn’t get the chance to finish, as her best friend tugs her away. She looks back onto the road, sees nothing that could have spooked him.

 

Wallis keeps the grin on his face as his back crawls— he can’t erase the weeping willow from his mind, the tears of blood, the staring branches, and he can feel a whisper of a laugh in his bones.

 

* * *

 

Hobo is strange.

 

Harold admits it-- there’s something about his friend that puts him on edge. He’s normal, no strange shadows cast, no sign of anything otherworldly but—

 

Sometimes the shadows do grow thicker when he nears. Animals flee from his touch, and once he saw a gaping maw dripping ink onto Hobo’s head retreat, as if shaken, when the man had smiled.

 

But Hobo is a human. That much is true, must be true.

 

And Harold cares about him, so he tells himself that that’s enough, every single time.

 

* * *

 

The lemon kids are small spirits, but somehow—

 

Everyone can see them. Harold doesn’t know  _ why;  _ they’re weak spirits, a part of nature the same way breezes and sunlight are. They’re small, not particularly powerful.

 

You can’t miss a force of nature, the stronger spirits he had the displeasure of encountering a few times. You can miss a breeze easily enough. But somehow they’re visible to everyone, even if only as cute little candy wrappers with arms and legs.

 

The others are lucky. Harold sees more.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Harold. Your golems give off weird… vibes.”

 

Wallis’s smile is plastic, stretched to the point of falseness. He sees only strange inconsistencies— Harold knows his brother can’t see as well as him.

 

He looks over to the lemon kids, sees the dozens of eyes blinking, embedded on each of thousands of needle-sharp teeth, the unnatural limbs, spidery and black and branching off each other. 

 

He sees the candy wrappers’ sickly pulses, like a heart with too many veins, and the way the bones are visible through the holes where their eyes should be. He sees the suspicious looking thing they’re eating, the one that no one else comments on because it supposedly isn’t there.

 

He smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”


	2. The Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we catch up to the present, and a wolf howls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nua: Sorry this took so long TwT   
> School n exams over now though, so we can update again~ 

_“It is the absence of facts that frightens people: the gap you open, into which they pour their fears, fantasies, desires.”_

**—** Hilary Mantel

 

* * *

 

 

Harold falls. 

 

“No, no, NO—” He’s falling, Cakegirl just knocked him off the golem and he’s going to crash to the ground, Lemon Kid clings to his leg, powerless; and he can’t fly, can’t do anything but scream, couldn’t ever do anything himself, uh? 

 

Yet— Someone catches him. 

 

“Do not worry,” the stranger says; the grip on Harold’s arm is tight, almost painful, but it stops his fall and he’s grateful. “I’ve saved you, random Gloomversian citizen!” 

“Whoa what—” He starts, and looks up and— 

 

The one who saved him is  _ flying _ . He’s barefoot and he’s dressed weird and he has clouds for hair. 

 

What freezes Harold’s blood solid isn’t the weirdo, though. It’s the ghost. 

 

He’s seen a lot of ghosts before. The lemon kids mostly ward them off, and when they can’t, he walks away, and it’s rarely still there the next day. Some are benevolent, gaze onto a place or a person with love, caress their cheeks and whisper words of sorrowful concern, or protect onlookers from the hazards that killed them. 

 

When he slept on the streets, he’d often end up sheltered where ghosts dwelled, and they’d welcome him— stay the night, no one will bother you here. This is a haven so long as you do not threaten it. It was weird as hell but, those nights, creeps walked past Harold without seeing him, so he wasn’t complaining.

 

The ghost that follows this man isn’t… like that. 

 

The shape still looks vaguely human, it can’t be a very old ghost. It clings to him with needle-sharp nails that leave no physical scars, but Harold can see it’s doing  _ something _ , he’s not sure what. Where the eyes should be— oh hell, he wants to throw up— where the eyes should be, there are gaping, bleeding holes. The blood pearls red and drips off the spirit’s face onto his savior, and it’s soaked into his skin and clothes, like water absorbed by fabric.

 

He doesn’t think the cloud man can see. 

 

* * *

 

“Hi! You two must be the new Prince and Princess? Shaman Cocos, blessed to meet you!”

 

The speech isn’t rehearsed, exactly, but for all her friendliness she’s a political woman. She knows what she’s supposed to say. That’s why she doesn’t falter. 

 

She smiles through Nim’s adorable introduction, she jokes and gifts her a coconut, but her eyes glance back on the… figure shadowing the grumpy prince. She can’t make out the details, but she can tell it’s… not good. 

 

Is… is he aware of it? Should she tell him? Should she tell Virga her new Prince is haunted? 

 

“Man,” she continues cheerfully, focusing back on Nim, “you are  _ so _ much cuter than the last princess!”

 

* * *

 

Harold couldn’t even look at Assistant when Seaweed helped her on the train. 

 

Last night, they got word from Purple that Wallis had popped back into existence, in a really weird way, and they all scrambled to catch tickets for the last train. He had briefly seen Hobo boarding, but he had disappeared almost immediately. Harold didn’t have the energy to look for him then. 

 

Now that he’s lying down awake, staring at the train’s ceiling— he wonders where he went. He doesn’t want to look out the window. The people are getting rarer, and all the spirits he sees look hungry. Around here— they seem more animalistic, more... primal, perhaps from the lack of important living human civilization. He remembers seeing similar patterns during his childhood hikes with Mom and Wallis.

 

He’s heard the ruins they’re going to are very old. There will be things to look out for, as well, but he’s used to it.

 

He doesn’t know how long he stares at the ceiling for— but Petunia calls out to him, and he phases back into reality.

 

“Are you awake, Honey?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Breakfast?”

 

He’s starving.

 

“Sure, I’m coming.”

 

He hasn’t even looked at Assistant, yet.

 

* * *

 

“I am the current Judge of Inverse. 21st since the Revolution, and it is refreshing to meet such lively characters.”

 

In the end, Cocos forgets about Cirrus entirely.

 

She tries to smile. “It is incredible to finally meet you, Judge!” She’s good at pretending she can’t see anything, after all. “Welcome!! I hope you have a great time here!”

 

She’s almost surprised the one who shoots her down isn't one of the shrieking spirits who swarm the Judge. Even the ghost following Cirrus screeches, clawing towards her but bound to him. 

 

She’s concerned, almost afraid, when the Judge’s monotonal reprimand warrants terror. 

 

She overhears royalty—“Just stay far, far away from her”— and agrees silently.

 

* * *

 

Assistant has barely seen anyone since she boarded the train.

 

It’s not that she’s avoiding them, or that they’re avoiding her, it’s just.

 

Just that she can’t seem to differentiate between dreams and reality now, her nightmares and the waking world. 

 

Just that since her fall she sees strange shadows in the corner of her eyes, and ominous melodies ring in her head; when she looks out of the window she sees black blurs that have nothing to do with motion, or hands tapping at the glass, there one moment and gone the next.

 

Just that sometimes she breathes, and her ears drip bloody poetry, and everything feels too bright and too sharp, powdered glass digging into her eyes as the world spins on its heel—

 

Just. Sometimes.

 

Assistant isn’t a coward.

 

But she is very afraid.

 

* * *

 

Reunion is sweet.

 

Harold missed his brother— more than he would like to admit in front of him, on any other day. Today he doesn’t care. His brother is alive and well, his  _ brother _ , he’s safe and— he’s not home but he’s  _ there.  _

 

“—our rides to Steamverse,” Wallis says, knocking Harold back to reality. He only caught the end. He follows, and—

 

There’s the flying person who caught him. After three weeks his ghost is still there, spidery arms wrapped around his shoulders. The ghost stares at Harold with sightless eyes, then it goes to Assistant— before Harold’s horrified eyes it launches itself forward with a sharp toothed shriek, tries to leap at her, but it can’t. Its link to “Cirrus” is too strong to let it step that far, and the invisible leash stops it just a few inches from her.   
  
Assistant flinches.

 

She saw it. Or at least— she can sense it. He’s never noticed she could see. He’s never actually met anyone who could, besides Wallis, but… well, it’s not something to be advertised, either.

 

* * *

 

He knows this place.

 

Centuries may have passed, hundreds and hundreds of years, but Amadeus remembers. There are memories embedded deep into ever rock, every crevice, every single tree— the great-grandchildren of those that watched it happen, but the earth remembered, and passed on the memory. 

 

The breeze mocks his age, erases it, pops it out of his bones, decade by decade, and then it almost feels like he’s never even left at all.

 

It’s all wistful thinking of course. Things  _ have _ changed. The spirits here multiplied over the years, forming a screeching choir in the sky and across the moss; the tower is empty now, brings nothing but evil memories to mind. It’s a shell of what it once was, just like he is. 

 

He feels an itching all over his body, as if he’s being clawed apart, like he’s been magnetized to be pulled into incompatible directions all at once.

 

Petunia notices. She must, given the increasing frequency of concerned gazes she shoots his way. He can’t bring himself to meet even one of them.

 

This... this place is a great sin. His.

 

Every one of them dig teeth into his back.

 

* * *

 

 

She missed Wallis and the others, yet she finds herself wandering on her own.

 

It’s just- overwhelming, she supposes. Suffocating. She feels a lump build in her throat as she takes another step, nearly tripping over a stone. Her crutches catch her before she can fall over, but it doesn’t lessen the sting. She sighs.

 

Then she hears growling. 

 

It takes a moment to realize that it’s not coming from her, but rather from behind. She turns to see a wolf—

 

_ That thing is not a wolf.  _

 

Rylie is frozen with terror, primal as the world itself (and perhaps many other worlds that came before) as it approaches. It has too many eyes, and too little teeth- its grin is all gums, fangless. There are bones where there shouldn’t be any, rusted gears creaking against each other, dark mist dripping between crevices. She tastes death on her lips, salt on her skin.

 

The thing growls— she hears it as a sailor hears a siren’s song— helpless, terrified, but all too aware.

 

And it looks at her, too many sharp edges and not enough soft, like a human would look at a pig about to be slaughtered- butcher knife in hand, held high, poised above vulnerable meat and calculating her weight in flesh.

 

It steps forward.

 

Rylie steps back— or tries to. She lands hard on the ground, unused to the absence of a limb. Her crutches clatter noisily onto earth, far out of her reach.

 

She doesn’t notice the yellow tendrils of magic curling around her hands, ready to be bruised, ready to punch, her knuckles pale bone under dark skin. But she does notice the thing’s excited rumble—  _ tasty,  _ it tells her, and she can see its teeth ache for the very marrow of her bones, to tear her apart and break what’s within. 

 

She may not know what this thing is, but Rylie grew up in a home that taught her to listen for footsteps and hide her bruises well- so she knows to swallow back her scream.

 

“Rylie!”

 

That breaks through her terror. She watches as Harold, stoic, closed off Harold, jump in front of her. Between the  _ thing _ and her. His hat is askew, and he has no wand, but his eyes gaze unflinchingly at the thing from behind the raven feathers of his hair.

 

The first thing she feels is dizzying relief, and she almost staggers from it. She isn’t going crazy- someone else sees what she sees. And here, behind Harold, he both hides her from view and keeps her from viewing.

 

The second thing she feels is fear— but not on her behalf. “Harold, what-”

 

He doesn’t say a word, but he clenches his teeth. She hears a grating noise and it takes a moment to realize it’s a laugh.

 

_ Two little morsels.  _ The thing says. Harold is tense— He can— He can definitely hear it, see it as she does. He’s still as a statue, coiled like a spring. She can see a muscle in his jaw jump from the effort.  _ It must be my lucky day. _

 

* * *

 

 

Harold’s seen powerful spirits before, but always at a distance. He isn’t near stupid enough to come close, not when he’s aware they see humans as food at best and… other things, at worst.

 

He’s never been this close to a possessed animal before, a normally-still-deadly wolf even less, and every nerve in his body is telling him to run. The survival instinct that got him this far knows this is not the kind of foe he can just defeat If a fight breaks out he’ll be teared apart, and Rylie with him. His limbs itch with the fear of it; he thinks he sees the spirit give a little smile. But he can’t give up. They can’t flee, Rylie wouldn’t even dream to make it back to camp fast enough. He takes a deep breath.

 

“H-Hey. Listen. It’s alright,” he says in the calmest voice he can muster, to her— it’s really not very calm, and the words don’t really make sense, but he knows the tone is what’s important. Neither of them can panic. On the same tone, he focuses back on the spirit, and raises his empty hands as a gesture of good faith. “We’re just passing through.” What’s moving isn’t an animal, but he can feel the underlying physicality to the monster, so maybe, just maybe, he could convince it to chill like he’d do with a wild dog. “If this is your territory, we didn’t know. We’re sorry. We are here in peace.”  

 

_ A half and a half of a half. You are not intruding.  _ It purrs.  _ Quite welcome in fact.  _ The thing with spirits is that Harold knows he never has a chance— he feels something wrapping around his shoulders and nipping at his ear, and there’s the sensation of fangs ghosting over his neck. He doesn’t flinch (can’t afford to, not if he wants to walk away from this the same) but it’s a close thing, that, and he knows that if he closed his eyes he would see blood dripping from under his eyelids.  _ Prey never intrude. _

 

He doesn’t move an inch, even as soil begins collecting under his nails, as rot creeps up his cheek. “We don’t want to fight,” he keeps talking, tone repetitive, as soothing as he can make it.  “W-We don’t need to fight. We’re not food. Just let us go.”

 

The wolf paws at the ground, and its eyes don’t blink, and its ears don’t flick, but something moves and suddenly the spirit is too close, way too close- he’s right in front of him, and Harold can smell the decay, count the eyes decorating its body.

 

_ Are you trying to convince me?  _ It asks, amused.  _ Your lullaby is distracting.  _ This one is playful— like a cat, a big purring cat unsheathing its claws just for the pleasure of seeing the mouse tremble. Harold wishes he knew something about this spirit, anything he could safely offer, as he scrambles for a response: He’s out of his depth and the spirit is too close, too near—

 

Rylie is silent. When he glances at her she looks scared (of course she is) but she’s not looking at the wolf. She’s looking at something else. And Harold may not be able to turn his head as freely, doesn’t dare to avert his gaze, but he hears something that— it sounds almost like that cloud man, ozone mixed with a panicked voice.

 

At that moment, that little slip of attention,  _ something  _ happens. The air grows heavy with power, and something in his stomach lurches with instinctual fear. 

 

A dark mass of energy barrels into the possessed wolf from behind Harold, and the spirit possessing it howls, an unearthly sound that makes the soil under his fingernails clump like blood— he watches as the spirit extracts itself from the flesh, struggling like a fish caught in a net, a fly stuck in a spiderweb, before it hisses with all its mouths and dissipates. The wolf, the physical, normal-looking wolf turns tail and runs away.

 

Now there’s only them. He looks behind him, but whatever had saved them both is gone— there’s nothing behind him but a trail of darkness, shadows already beginning to seep into the ground.

 

* * *

 

 

In Stratoverse, power is everything.

 

And it’s a policy Cirrus agrees with, of course he does, he’s proud of his country and its values, but— there are some parts that he doesn’t see as necessary. Beating Alto is one thing he doesn’t need to do, even if some think that succeeding the throne from natural death is, ironically, unnatural. 

 

He  _ likes _ the old man. He served his country dutifully all his life, he’s kind, he has grandchildren. He doesn’t want to get him killed before his time. There is no need. It just wouldn’t be right. One should take care of those weaker than oneself. That is what duty is about. What other reason is there to be stronger than everyone else? 

 

For the same reason, Cirrus decked an entire president in the face, and got banned from a country for it. And got punched in the face, too. Virga’s punches hurt a lot more than his would have, but he still doesn’t regret his actions. Gloomverse’s president makes his blood boil. 

 

How dare she look down on those who are defenceless and need her most.  _ How dare _ . What kind of leader  _ is _ that? If letting an old man live peacefully makes one a dishonorable ruler— what kind of leader is that woman? (What kind of leaders does his country have, to discard the powerless?)

 

To be more specific, perhaps what he respects is strength. Power and strength aren’t strictly the same. One can have a lot of firepower, but refuse to use it if it comes at a price. That would be weakness. Strength is using the power one has to pursue their duty, no matter the cost. 

 

He didn’t think much of the Gloomversian citizen he saved from falling a few weeks back. He was surprised, and completely unprepared, to meet him again along with  _ that woman _ , why did they both know Nim’s annoying working partner? What kind of coincidence was that..? Wait, he’d mentioned getting the ticket from those who held the show, so perhaps he should have guessed he might know  _ her _ too. But the black-haired magician? 

 

They hadn’t really talked, though he’d caught “Harold” staring at him a couple times— considering how to thank his savior, maybe? — and there really was nothing else. He was a weak Gloomversian magician that Cirrus protected when the need arose, because that was royalty’s duty. There was little more to say. 

 

...or at least that was what Cirrus thought until he found the wolf.

 

His gut reaction to the huge beast was— flee. He could fly, wolves couldn’t, he’d be safe. Better avoid trouble. Of course, however, he couldn’t, because just then he spotted the Assistant, fallen over a few paces from it— being threatened by the growling animal. 

 

Cirrus wasn’t certain about the actions to take in this situation— she had magic, and it didn’t, but she was crippled, and the wolf looked aggressive, but he’d never fought a wolf before, wolves had teeth and sharp claws that magic couldn’t defend against, should he shoot it from afar? What if he missed? 

 

And while these thoughts ran wild in his mind, one Harold Gloom rushed between the animal and the girl. He had no weapons drawn, no magic crackling at his fingertips— wand tip? Gloomversians used their wands— nothing at all to defend himself with. He was defenceless. Weak.

 

And he still— protected her. Cirrus couldn’t hear, but he saw Harold raise his hands in a peaceful gesture, and the wolf’s agitated tail slowed down ever so slightly, it looked— attentive— there was no magic Cirrus could see. This was an insane course of action, any time at all the wolf might leap and shred them to pieces—

 

Yet, the wolf was like— mesmerized. So was Cirrus. He’d completely lost track of time, as if hypnotized by the scene. Oh. Oh no, they were still in danger! Focus, Cirrus, focus! 

 

He kicks the air and rushes forward, yells out— he’s going to grab them both and fly up through the trees, that’s the safest thing they can do— 

 

There’s a rush of wind, the slightest aftertaste of winter nights on his tongue, and as if struck, the wolf flees. 

 

He reaches them and realizes he was completely unneeded. Harold’s actions— were enough. He bought time, with nothing him between himself and death, and saved both himself and the teenager. 

 

“Are you both unharmed?” Cirrus asks, Harold is kneeling next to the Assistant— they both glance at him and nod. Cirrus can’t spot anything that could’ve scared the beast.

 

“We should leave before it comes back.” It or whatever it was that the wolf was afraid of. “I will transport you to campgrounds.” The air obeys him, condenses into a cloud, and Harold helps the Assistant on it— with a wretched feeling in his gut Cirrus realizes this wouldn’t have been possible in the heat of the action, they would’ve moved too slowly— this had been such a close call. 

 

He maneuvers carefully around the branches and they rise above the trees. “What did you do to the wolf?”

 

Harold startles, and the Assistant gasps. “You could see it?”

 

...they must be confused as to why he didn’t come to their aid sooner. They were right, though. He was— he should have stepped in earlier. They’d been lucky. If something had happened to them… 

 

“I spotted a wild beast from afar, and intended to come to your aid.” But he didn’t. “...I am relieved you were not harmed before I got to you.” He wouldn’t have forgiven himself. 

 

The Assistant opens her mouth— perhaps it is to berate him further. But Harold puts a hand on her remaining leg and shakes his head firmly. Something passes between them, something he isn’t in on, and she ends up closing her mouth with an audible click.

 

It’s silent then. Cirrus watches as Harold flicks red soil from under his fingernails.

 

* * *

 

 

The first thing Rylie does is to get Harold alone.

 

The second thing she does is ask him what the hell that thing was.

 

The third thing she does is laugh. 

 

It’s not a nice laugh. It’s not even a relieved laugh. It’s hysterical, and Harold stands a step away without knowing what to do. 

 

Once she’s regained some sanity— he says Wallis can see, too, always could, though it a lot less than him. Than them. “He’s too self-absorbed to look at what he’s seeing,” she jokes, and they laugh, because she’s always known magic was real but this mess had never been on the table.

 

“So— the lemon kids.” Rylie asks, gesturing at the… things. They aren’t eating something right now, thank goodness, but they’re hardly the epitome of sweetness. She winces when they make a strange chirruping sound.

 

“Have they always been—“ 

 

“Yeah.”

 

She pales a little, adds “I see,” and says nothing else for a few seconds. 

 

“Is the thing stuck to Cirrus real?”

 

“Yeah. He’s haunted, I think, but he can’t see the ghost.”

 

“Oh.” 

 

They fall silent for a while longer. They’re leaving imminently— they’ll spend the day on a cloud, and who knew what they’d find in Steamverse (Hopefully nothing scary).

 

“...it looks really creepy.” Everything only they see does. Harold hums, though almost happy she can tell. It’s been maybe just a little lonely, being the only one to see that reality.

 

“I want to help Cirrus. Do you think there’s a way..?”

 

Harold shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know. If the ghost is attached to him like that, he must be letting it? Ghosts are usually too weak to leech off on people. But he can’t see it, so… I don’t know…”

 

“Maybe they have some kind of history?”

 

“Maybe. Could be someone close to him that died.”

 

“Are… are all ghosts like that?” 

 

…Rylie finally said what was on her mind, huh.

 

“No.” He’s not sure how to explain it properly. “Some are caring? Like, they’d protect a place or a person. I saw them sometimes, when I was living on the street. This one’s just… particularly nasty for some reason. Whoever it was must have died really angry…”

 

He can’t even begin to imagine how bad the death was to make whoever it was come back as this… thing, ready to tear people apart and sink ghostly needle teeth into flesh. He can’t imagine it, and truth be told, he doesn’t want to.

 

That thing is wrong, wrong, the universe gone wrong somewhere. 

 

“Maybe we should just ask Cirrus? If it’s someone he’s still mourning, he’ll know who it was, no?”

 

Harold considered it. “That could help, but…” He grimaced. “It’s  _ Cirrus _ we’re talking about.” 

 

“Right.”

 

“Are you two ready to go?” Petunia’s voice called out from the campsite, but she didn’t get close, unwilling to interrupt. 

 

“It’s going to be okay.” Harold put a comforting hand on Rylie’s shoulder. 

 

“We’ll figure this out.” 

 

* * *

 

 

“Rylie can see.”

 

It takes Wallis a few seconds to stop, slow down, realize exactly what he’s hearing. When he does his eyes widen with the weight of this knowledge, his fists clenched tightly enough to bleed.

 

Harold watches, eyes keen and sharp; he’s always had sharp eyes. Sharp enough to cut, to sting— sharp enough to protect, to defend. A blade tethering on the abyss, leaving red welts on his fingers.

 

(He would be jealous of it; but he thinks of memories tinged iron with blood and knows, deep down, that the possession of sight is never a blessing and always a curse.)

 

“How.” He Tries. He doesn’t bother to ask if his brother is joking, not about this. And even if he did try to slip into denial, his hopes would easily be dashed by the raw honesty in Harold’s eyes, the tension dripping off his frame. “Since when?”

 

Silence hangs between them, heavy with grief, with mourning.

 

“How long.” Wallis asks.  _ How well.  _

 

“Recently. She said she only started to see after waking up in the hospital.” A pause, then, and Harold turns desperately to his elder brother. “She can  _ see  _ the Lemon Kids, Wallis.” 

 

The words drop from his mouth like stones, leaded weights that wrap themselves around his heart and squeezes. In. Out. He breathes and tastes iron, because oh god oh no—

 

“She sees as well as I do, and I— What do we do?”

 

The words dig into his skin, raw and hurting. He opens his mouth, but there are barbed wires wrapped around his throat. His fingers are stiff and frozen in place- there’s frost creeping over his nails, ice water dripping down his cheeks.

 

“...Oh.” Wallis answers. There are flames flickering in Harold’s eyes, and there’s warmth in his brother’s arms. He shuts his eyes and welcomes the darkness that accompanies it, sinks into the hug when it’s offered. Here and now, he pretends they’re safe— but….

 

But in the distance, a wolf is howling, and his hair stands on end— his breaths are slow, and sharp. Outside his tent, there are whispers; and in the tower, creeping shadows begging for something they can’t give.

 

(Nowhere is safe. Nowhere to run.)

 

* * *

 

An old soul watches on, slowly stretching the fingers that rid a wolf of a certain pestilence— opening and closing his fist like it can change their fate. 

 

He can’t protect them from everything.

 

He, too, is afraid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nua: Hope you enjoyed~ 

**Author's Note:**

> Plot starts next chapter, stay tuned~


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